


Breaking Point

by hillbillied



Series: Donald Malarkey never went to mass [11]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jewish, Gen, Holocaust, Jewish Character, why we fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9289520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillbillied/pseuds/hillbillied
Summary: There's an irony to it, how the sympathy extended towards Liebgott is very much absent towards him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for everything that is in Why We Fight being written about here.

 

After every hit. Every scratch, every bullet wound. Every deafening explosion, every drop of blood upon the snow. Every moment lost.

_Every death._

After everything, this really is the breaking point.

 

 

 

He is with Liebgott when the news trickles in. Dribbling down to them, through the pipeline started by Perconte. Dirty water into an otherwise calm stream. They get up, pull on their helmets, clamber into the trucks like the rest of Easy.

Nobody really knows what's going on, what they'll find beyond the trees. The woodland is eerily silent, the wind holding its breath for a change. No gunfire, no artillery. It's worse, somehow.

They're at the back of the convoy, Liebgott and him. They step out their jeep last, don't even get a look at what's been found before they're spread out to guard the group. As far away as they can be, facing outwards into the dead forest. And it is _dead_ , they see, not a single rustle of life present as they stand watch.

It smells dead, too. A far off stench they both notice with wrinkled noses, glancing at each other in concern. Neither of them wants to turn around, whether for duty's sake or for fear of what they might find.

"Did anyone tell you what they found?" Joe manages, eyes on the unwavering trees.

Don shakes his head, scratching at the hair still present at his jaw. Something that hasn't gone unnoticed, Liebgott having quietly despaired as he saw his friend become more and more lazy with his shaving. Which seemed trivial, in the grander scheme, but it had been drilled into them so acutely at Toccoa. It made Joe wonder what reasoning he could be missing.

"Babe said it might be a POW camp or somethin'." Malark gives to break the quiet, grimly adjusting the grip on his carbine.

" _Shit_."

It's all Liebgott can get out before a call erupts from behind.

The pair turn, though only one of their names is being hollered, facing the oncoming orders. Liebgott's being summoned to the front, to beyond the wire fence they can both make out in the distance. His hand leaves a reassuring pat on Don's shoulder before he runs off, picking up the pace as Winter's shrieks for him on the horizon.

Malark is left alone, staring after his lifeline as the man disappears into the crowd. A moving mass of faceless soldiers, all bearing the mark of the Airborne.

Standing on the brink of the convoy, Don realises the feeling that brews in his gut is no longer a natural one of war.

It's the feeling of being alone.

Of standing on a precipice before an unrelenting drop, one you cannot for the life of you see the bottom of. The noise of his friends and comrades falls away, and he is left with only the silence of the forest. Cold tendrils of dread weave themselves around his stomach, clenching, threatening to dig into his lungs and stop his breath altogether.

He is scared. And he doesn't know why.

A twig snaps. His feet are moving, his guard post at the edge of this chasm abandoned. Every tread takes him closer, brings more into his sightline. The ground feels as though it may cave beneath him any moment.

No such luck.

Instead, the wire fences appear from the mist. Tangled messes of barbs, held in place by damp and charred wood. Between them, bodies. At least, he assumes they're bodies. He doesn't look long enough at the crumpled piles of bones and cloth, pinned in place between the wire jaws. He looks to the gates instead.

They're open. They welcome him inside with a cruel sense of irony. It's a hideous joke that he doesn't yet understand.

He will. Later, he will look back with glazed eyes and unfortunate hindsight. He'll see and he'll remember and he'll understand why there seems to be laughter in those gates that goes unheard.

_Because no man like you ever walked in here willingly._

Maybe if he'd known - and had any sense - he wouldn't have even done that. He might have turned and ran, as far away as his legs could carry him. Not stopped until he met the crashing waves and could taste the salty air.

Those gates haunt him, that short space between the two rows of fence, within reach of the gate's clutches, making him squirm in the safety of his uniform. The smell hit him long ago, and he'd taken his necktie to his mouth to shield his senses.

The fabric falls away as he passes through the entrance. Stands neck deep in the trails of smoke and the consuming stench. Chest suddenly rising, filling his lungs with the thick air of death. Of burning. Something to gag on, makes him worry he may drown in the stench alone.

Peoples swarm around him. All in uniforms.

First, the green and beige he recognises.

Then the blue and white he does not.

It's the first time he's seen clothes dirtier than theirs. All faded stripes and rotten edges, so obvious when one of the strangers wraps his arms around Janovec's neck. Holds him tightly, kisses his cheeks. Greets him like a messiah unto Jerusalem.

Don has walked too far by then. Stands deeper into the camp than the others, having seemingly paced forwards without even registering his friends. He looks to them now for help, for some guidance as to how this place should make him feel. His eyes move wildly between their faces, spread out around this bottomless pit.

Luz is no longer smiling. In fact, his face looks like laughter hasn't graced it in years. Webster, beside him, is uncharacteristically silent. His hands tremble and his voice is barely there and it's like he's never learnt how to talk at all. A replacement sits by himself, staring unseeingly into the trees, helmet by his feet.

All their helmets are off, it seems.

Except Don's.

His fingers move uncertainly to its rim, to shakily grip the cold metal as his eyes move finally to rest upon his lifeline. The weight upon his head remains as his gaze falls to Liebgott, pale features outlined starkly in the darkness of the camp. Winters, Speirs, Nixon - all three stand beside him, looking to him with equal intensity.

He is translating a striped man's words into English.

Malark watches. _Waits_. Keeps his helmet in place with an iron grip and a dread boiling in his gut.

The thin, starving man speaks softly. Shaking with every word. Joseph's expression is grim, but unsurprised. He keeps his composure, unmoved by the conversation. Until the stranger says one word. A single, quiet word and Malark watches as something breaks within Liebgott's eyes. Even from a distance, the heavy pause and look of unexplained horror washes over them both.

Winters looks confused. They all are, until Joe translates, speaking in the same soft, shaking voice. Another, shorter word. But the same one, in English this time. It sinks into them all like a stone through water.

Liebgott and Winters share a look. And with the same pained expression, turn their heads in one direction. Into the camp, across the steaming dirt that makes up the ground of this forsaken place. To Malarkey, standing so rigidly in their sightline.

He doesn't need to hear them say it. The look they both wear, the confusion on the other officers' faces, is enough.

It wasn't like he'd missed the yellow stars anyway.

 

 

 

He says nothing, in the following hour. Struck dumb, as if he doesn't want to believe that this could be real. As if speaking about it would solidify it upon this world, make a reality out of a nightmare.

Liebgott continues to translate. All Don can do is slice up cheese.

He feels useless. And blessed, when he overhears what Winters asks Joe to say. A message of reason to people who have been living in a Hell without such a thing for so long. It's cruel. And it's necessary.

Malark steps down from the truck, having put the cheese away. Liebgott steps into his place and their gazes meet. Neither of them shares a word as one positions himself on the platform to speak, the other disappearing into the crowd.

The reaction to Joe's request is a natural one. A human one, so sympathetic that only a monster could begrudge these people for it. They cry and plead as they are once again herded back within the confines of their prison.

Don watches Liebgott sink to the floor of the truck, hand dragging over his face. Their translator begins to cry.

A hand shoves Malark's shoulder. He's being scolded, told to hurry up and help shepherd the people back inside the gates. It's all white noise, the crackling of a broken radio, ignored as he watches Liebgott hunched over in the truck. Shoulders shaking, unable to contain his tears.

The hand that appears on Joe's shoulder is very different in nature. It's the soft, reassuring touch of Lipton, knelt before him as he mutters soothing words to the anguished man. It's a beautiful sight, restores faith in the heart.

Just not Don's heart, especially as he is shoved more aggressively, the MP who does so spitting in his face as he barks orders to get his shit together. Babe is beside him, appears to placate the situation, even as he steers Don towards the gates.

"C'mon, Mal." The other redhead breathes, "I know it's hard but think how Liebgott feels. I mean, these are his guys, after all..."

And isn't that just fitting, Don thinks, the taste of blood in his mouth suddenly bitter. The irony of it, how the sympathy extended towards Liebgott is very much absent towards him. He glances at Joe as he shuffles towards the last few protesting prisoners, now wrapped tightly in Lipton's arms.

He reminds himself that this is how it always goes.

That he should never, _ever_ expect understanding. The very existence of this monstrosity is testament to that.

The people in the striped uniforms have all but dispersed back within the camp, though this time accompanied by medics and real doctors rather than gun-wielding psychopaths. Only one remains still outside the gate, fallen to his knees in distress as he pleads with his saviours to let him remain in freedom a little longer. His words are in German and can't be understood by anyone there. Nobody can talk to him, can understand and comfort.

He is as alone as Don feels amongst these soldiers.

The MP from before sighs, makes a move back towards the truck. With the intent to drag Joe back out into translation service, no doubt. Even his tears aren't enough to escape his trauma.

"Liebgott, you're up." Is his only call as he's ushered from the safety of the jeep.

"Is there no one else who speaks German?" Lipton is quick to ask, searching for an escape. Caring as ever, watching out for all his men.

The gruff _'No'_ from the MP leaves the newly appointed officer looking mournfully at Lieb. With wet eyes, Joe lets Carwood help him to his feet, jumping down from the jeep with a thump. A heavy sound that rings in the man's ears as he steels himself for what's to come. He follows the MP through the crowd, Lipton no more than a pace behind, always watching his back.

But what they come to on the other side of the group is not what they expect. In their moment of discussion, the disappearance of the prisoner's wailing had gone unnoticed. His begging falling away to soft sniffles, aided by the firm grip around his shoulder.

He no longer sits alone in the dirt outside those gates; Malarkey had planted himself beside him.

The pair look comically contrast against the burnt soil. Their bodies so different, one decayed, the other hardened, a distinction unhelped by Don's flaming hair now on show. But they sit together all the same, shoulder to shoulder, with the soldier's arm looping protectively around the stranger's shoulder as bony fingers grip the jacket of his uniform. Tightly clutching the fabric, not allowing him to turn away.

Liebgott watches with the others, listening to the quiet recital being performed before him. His tears begin to flow again, Lipton notices, as Joe sees the golden cover of Malarkey's prayer book, held up between the seated men for them both to see. The redhead's voice has taken on a musical tone, as if singing a hymn, as he unapologetically lets out the prayer upon the page.

" _Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam,-_ "

Joe feels a sense of inappropriate pride as he recognises the words, understanding the simple prayer that brings such joyful tears to the prisoner's eyes.

"- _hagomel lahayavim tovot, sheg'molani kol tov._ "

Don looks to his companion then, waiting patiently for him to respond. His hand squeezes the man's shoulder encouragingly, reassuring that he is still here. Still alive.

" _A-Amen._ "

The pair of them embrace each other.

It doesn't make sense to the onlookers, not even Liebgott. But then, nothing here does.

A glimpse into another world comes to a close. With a heavy heart, Don supports the man in getting to his feet. A doctor is there to help him back inside the camp, though not before he resolutely shakes Malark's hand with a renewed strength that the redhead is honoured to have felt touch his palm. Worth more than any General's salute.

Just like that, the breaking point is over. Only an air of uncertainty lingers as the gates to the camp close. Even the other men of Easy seem to step back as Don makes his way back towards the departing trucks, tucking his book resolutely away. Into his breast pocket, returning to hover protectively over his heart.

An unmistakable show of faith in such a dark time. It's not what he wanted for himself, not what he ever wanted people to see. But he is reminded of why he did it as he feels Liebgott's arm wrap around his shoulder, pulling him flush against the taller man as they walk away together on shaking legs.

 

 

 

_"Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who bestows good things upon the unworthy, and has bestowed upon me every goodness."_

**Author's Note:**

> This will never live up to the standards of writing I would want for it, but that's impossible with such a subject.


End file.
